


John Watson and the Christmas Conundrum

by karadin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Humour, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karadin/pseuds/karadin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Synopsis: John Watson takes on the challenge of finding the Perfect Present for the World's Only Consulting Detective and the complications that ensue when he finds It.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Author: Karadin  
Fandom: SHERLOCK BBC  
Principal Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
Rating PG  
*takes place after series two*  
Genre: Humour, Mystery, Friendship  
(Can be seen as pre-slash if you put those goggles on)  
Sherlock Holmes and related characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle  
Sherlock (BBC 2010) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss  
This is a work of fiction; no remuneration is taken by the author.  
Illustrations copyright Karadin 2011 all rights reserved.

 

Author’s note: If you are reading this story and you did not access it through Archive of Our Own, this is a stolen work, posted without the author’s consent. Please go directly to Archive of Our Own and access the author’s page under the author’s name Karadin. Thank you.

***

John Watson watched as Detective Inspector Lestrade locked the top drawer of his desk, stating with emphasis as he turned the key. "You know that partner of yours could have this out in a half-second."

John chuckled. "The point of giving you my mobile is so it won't be taken apart, set on fire or otherwise irreparably damaged by my flatmate while I'm away."

"Ah, the now legendary Present-Hunting Weekend," Lestrade grinned. "Himself can't be arsed to celebrate Crimbo like anyone else?"

"The mission-quest-thing was my idea." John held up his hand, "Since I've discovered Sherlock Holmes' Christmas list is a thing of beauty; _hundreds_ of names long, with each individual on it cross referenced by statistics of their height, weight, blood groups, shoe sizes, hobbies, foodstuffs-with-corresponding-allergies and even favourite colours." The doctor smiled, recalling that their landlady Mrs. Hudson's information was annotated by 'plum _no_ cerise'.

John Watson had discovered the list whilst updating his blog with Sherlock Holmes looking over his shoulder as he scanned the Excel spreadsheet.

"This is incredible, Sherlock! How long did this take?"

The detective's response was a smirk of justifiable pride.

When John deduced that the reason his name was not on the list was due to the fact Sherlock had used his laptop - and being a project for the greater good he could not bollock him for it - his partner surprised him by remarking,

"John Watson is not _there_ because I keep all his data _here_ ," and he tapped his forehead, "... on my 'hard drive.'"

John took a moment to recall the feeling of unabashed pleasure he had felt at Sherlock's admission, only to have his reverie broken by Lestrade.

"So, he's trading in favours. Still, all that organizing must take a bit of work." The Inspector folded his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. "This doesn't do much for Sherlock Holmes' self-promoted reputation as a sociopath."

"Oh, if you ask our Favourite Consulting Detective, he'll tell you." John imitated his flatmate's imperious expression. "My networks of informants need to be rewarded to continue their efforts. Our clients, John, who provide the gifts of goods and services, will be reminded of our invaluable assistance. At the social gatherings of the season they will be inclined to give us referrals; hopefully _one_ in hundreds will result in an interesting case."

John couldn't help smiling. "I knew from the second day we met that Sherlock loved Christmas as much as a serial murder, so I said, "If it's not the _giving_ of gifts you enjoy, I'm guessing you like to receive them."

"Everyone likes presents." Sherlock replied and shoving his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, he wandered over to the breakfast table where Mrs. Hudson had left a tin of homemade biscuits.

Sherlock pulled off the lid pausing before biting into a chocolate shortbread. “Not that any of the gifts I receive are _surprising_ in any way."

John giggled as he told Lestrade the Great Detective was 'pouting' as he said this.

"You knew that I was giving you a scarf last year?"

"A simple deduction. You pointed out a fortnight before the holiday that my old scarf was looking ragged. Also, the dimensions of the box were indicative of the contents and the shop where you bought it."

Sherlock had quickly added, seeing the expression of dismay on the doctor's face,  
"I _like_ my new scarf or I wouldn't _wear_ it. I would have used it in an experiment, like that particularly awful jumper Harry sent you. You observed the weave of my former scarf and its colour and found something similar, though stripes are to your preference not mine."

"I liked the Daniel Craig Bond DVD's."

"As I knew you would." Sherlock sat down at the table, the biscuit tin held between his hands as if he were guarding it.

John sat down across from his flatmate. "So, what you would really like this Hols, is to be surprised."

Sherlock nodded. "Useful gifts are expected at Christmas from well meaning Aunts, or _siblings._ "

John paused to scowl as Sherlock had done and Lestrade laughed, aware of the animosity between the Consulting Detective and his elder brother Mycroft.

Sherlock had continued, "... things like awful jumpers or socks or being _coerced into rehab_ ; but everyone wants a Father Christmas gift, the Perfect Present, not inherently practical or useful but necessary to one's well-being. The gift you don't know that you've wanted until you hold it in your hands."

Lestrade blinked, leaning forward. "A Perfect Present? I can't remember one of those since I was a kid, getting my first football."

John nodded. "So, I asked him, "How long has it been, Sherlock, since you've had a Perfect Present?"

"When I was eight years old I was given the Strad." The detective turned to look at his priceless violin, ensconced in its case beside his music stand.

Lestrade sighed, "So you promised, right then and there that you'd get Sherlock Holmes Who-Knows-Everyone-and-Everything-in-a-Glance a Perfect Present?"

The doctor threw up his hands. "What could I do? He looked like a little lost child. Tt was disturbingly adorable and _completely_ manipulative on his part ,but when I think of all he's done, all the gifts are anonymous, no one knows Sherlock is the donor. No one's tried to surprise him with a gift in _ages._ "

"You gotta put some blame on Himself for that with his anti-social behaviors."

"I'm pretty certain that's an attempt to keep from being disappointed on numerous levels."

Lestrade shook his head in wonder. "You're tilting at windmills you know."

"I'm hoping here that the effort will count for something, which is why I've made him agree to certain conditions." John stood up from his chair, pulling on the lapels of his brown leather coat.

"You mean the Tinker-Tailor-Spy stuff?" the Inspector indicated with a wave of his hand John's new clothes. "I suppose he'd be insufferable and know where you'd been because of the mud on your shoes."

"The only way I can surprise Sherlock is to disappear, which is why you're keeping my mobile, watch and the clothes and shoes I came over with - I wouldn't be surprised if they were tagged - I'll get out of London where I can't be in view of CCTV and use only cash. Thanks by the way, for helping."

"It's no skin off my nose, but what if a case comes up?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm going to be watching _The Science of Deduction_ site from internet cafs. If Sherlock posts the signal we agreed to in case of danger - and I mean of the extreme sort - I'll contact him."

John didn't mention that the signal he and his partner had agreed to was COME HOME, the doctor hauled his luggage over his shoulder and stretched his arm out to shake hands with the Detective Inspector.

"Good luck. By the way, will there be reciprocation? Is Sherlock going to find you a present as well?"

"Oh, yes. He's going to _make_ me a gift!

"God help us all." Lestrade groaned, wiping his face with his hands as John Watson laughed his way out the door.

***

John gave himself a deadline of 3 days and 2 nights to acquire a gift for Sherlock. He would not call any of his friends or online acquaintances for help as he was certain that if Sherlock tracked him down any surprise would be ruined. He supposed the best way to elude the detective was to pick a random destination.

The doctor looked at the timetables in Waterloo station before flipping a 10p coin to direct him north or south. He purchased a ticket and boarded the train, taking a seat in an empty first class carriage with his holdall between his feet, reading a Dick Francis paperback he had bought at the newsagents.

During the journey John found himself reaching into the pocket of his coat for a mobile that wasn't there, waiting for constant texts that didn't come, as he tried to settle into an unusual sense of quiet.

John hoped that Sherlock was being a good Consulting Detective and staying at the flat - or the lab, hopefully not the morgue - working on his present.

***

When John arrived at Salisbury, he found a hostel in an ancient Tudor house which would have been frequented by students and tourist during the busy seasons, tonight he was the only guest. He was given a key to the front door and the mistress of the house was willing to put his holdall in a locked cupboard, the door of which was teetering on worn hinges. On the High Street John stopped for a bacon sarnie and cuppa before shopping; but was disappointed to find the shops at Maltings were either the same as those he could visit on Marylebone Road or twee specialty boutiques geared to tourists.

Then John spotted a fellow Afghan vet outside _Reeve the Baker_ using the skills of deduction Sherlock had instilled in him, as well as his own ability to spot a military man by his upright posture and bearing.

John and David Plaskett - of the 88th Postal and Courier Regiment - struck up an immediate accord and after trading a few war stories, David escorted John round to the outdoor markets locals frequented.

While many of the goods displayed were distinctly interesting - John could imagine the inferences Sherlock might have found in old Jasperware, antique sledges and worn tapestry chairs regarding their former owners - none of the items seemed intriguing enough for John's brilliant, exhilarating, exasperating, flatmate.

John exchanged phone numbers with David, writing the ex-soldier's down in a small notebook - now that his mobile was safe with Lestrade - and stopped at a chip shop for supper. He spied a flyer pinned to a notice board promoting a free holiday concert at the Cathedral and attended this before returning to the hostel to sleep.

The first floor was divided, with the men's side on the right. The ancient house had a floor which warped at almost 40 degrees and the headboard of the single bed s had its feet cut off to accommodate the angle. John felt disoriented, as if on the deck of an old sailing ship and could not read his novel. As he lay quite still, thinking about Sherlock's gift, John determined that if he were to succeed in his quest, he had to narrow his choices to a category.

John considering the interests of Sherlock Holmes, running the gamut from men's designer fashion to obscure poisons and drifted off with digitalis rather than sugarplums dancing through his head. When he woke at the crack of dawn, it was with this revelation; when in need, find _a consultant._

Dressing quickly, John slid his payment for the room under the door of the hostel owner's bedroom and jogged to the railway station to buy a ticket for the first train to Oxford.

***

John had never visited the University town before, but the scenes that greeted him, narrow cobbled streets and medieval towers of blond coloured stone were familiar from frequent viewings of _Inspector Morse._

He hiked up Hythe Bridge Street toward the Ashmolean Museum where the Lead Curator of Eastern Art, a Mr. Wong, had assisted Sherlock during a case involving forgeries of ancient Japanese Ukiyo-e prints. This gentleman had extended an invitation to tour the museum, and Sherlock had been enthusiastic at the time - John had listened raptly to Sherlock's stories of living in Tokyo after leaving university - but the detective had been too busy to follow up.

As luck would have it, Kevin Wong was at the museum early on a Saturday and willing to meet John. Mr. Wong proved to be a young Asian man in his early-thirties, slender and golden-skinned with dark brown hair in a stylish shag cut. His clothes were casual and when he reached out to take John's hand, the doctor noticed a sandalwood mala bracelet on his right wrist.

"Dr. Watson, this is such a pleasure. I'm sorry that Mr. Holmes is not with you. We had so many interesting conversations."

"I'm sorry to trouble you, and the name's John."

"It's not any trouble, the Ashmolean owes a great debt to you and your partner. Call me Kevin or Kev, my friends do. Have you visited us before?"

"No, I've never been to Oxford. I thought that the museum would be smaller, somehow."

The curator's face opened with a large smile. "We expanded in 2009, adding two new floors, including a Japanese tea house."

Kevin took John's bag, handing it to the guard at the security desk for safekeeping. The curator then led the doctor through the galleries, working their way upward through the museum.

"Can I ask a question? Sherlock mentioned to me that your surname is Chinese, but your specialty is Japanese art."

Kev smiled, having been asked this question numerous times. "My family is full Chinese, but I was born and grew up in Oxford. I've certainly an interest and through knowledge of my Chinese heritage, but the culture of Japan appeals to me as well."

"Oh, I get that," John replied. "I'm part Scots, but you can't get me into a kilt."

"From what I've heard, Scots clan tartans are a Victorian invention," Kev said, and both men laughed as they entered the exhibit that Mr. Wong had recently devised, a display of brilliant woodcut prints of Kabuki actors. John regaled Kev with a story - heavily edited - of meeting a living treasure, Japan's leading _onnagata,_ on a case.

There were more of the Ashmolean's great treasures to view as they continued the tour, such as the Messiah Stradivarius.

John astonished his guide by remarking, "Sherlock has one that looks just like it!"

When informed that the antique violin had never been played, John had a sudden inspiration, but the curator visibly shuddered at the idea of allowing anyone to 'try out' the Messiah.

"Bugger," John sighed. At Kev's expression of surprise, he explained, "the reason I came up this weekend was to find a Christmas present for Sherlock. He likes all things Japanese, so I took the chance that you might have some suggestions."

"I can imagine someone like Mr. Holmes would be difficult to buy for."

"You have _no_ idea," John said with a sigh.

"We have beautiful things in our gift shop."

"I'm certain you do, but he's not really a gift-shop type of person." John thought on Sherlock's bespoke clothing, antique books and esoteric decorations and slid his hands into his trouser pockets, allowing his shoulders to slump in resignation.

Discovering the doctor had only eaten a few sausage rolls on the train for breakfast, Kev suggested that they visit the museum's Dining Room on the rooftop, where both men ordered from the festive set menu and discussed John's dilemma.

"Say you narrow your search to something Japanese," Kev said as he sampled the braised lamb shank, "... that still encompasses pottery, textiles, paintings and weapons."

"Weapons?" John asked, his curiosity piqued.

Kev nodded. "A mate of mine has a shop over his dojo - the martial arts school where I train - Gareth carries some antiques, which include Japanese katana, swords, you know."

John chuckled. "The idea of Sherlock with a sword is rather frightening. It's not that he can't fight, he's an expert fencer."

"There are other things than swords, menpo, which are helmets," Kevin flicked the fingers of his left hand as he recited, "... naginata, shuriken."

"Throwing stars?" John glanced up, with a gleam of interest. "That might just be something that might appeal to Sherlock, with the added attraction they would stick _in_ the walls rather than go _through_ them."

Kevin's eyebrows rose at this remark. "Shuriken can resemble small daggers, nails, even hairpins, but they _aren't_ just for show. You wouldn't want to get hit with one of these in the neck!"

After lunch Kevin collected John's holdall from the security desk and the men walked to the staff car park. Kev took a moment to show off his restored green Morris Minor two-seater. John's holdall was dropped in the boot and they were off.

Gareth Hobbs, who waited at the door of his dojo - in a converted cinema - was not much taller than John but much broader in build. His hair was long and dark, pulled back into a topknot, and he wore the Gi uniform of a Ju-Jitsu Master.

"Dr. Watson, you look just like the pictures on your website!" The proprietor slapped John on his shoulder in a good-natured way, the doctor was only grateful it was his right side and resisted rubbing out the sting with the flat of his palm.

As Gareth led the way through the wide vaulted space, students in silver and black Gi practiced their kata on polished wooden floors. A set of stairs at the back lead up to a small but impressive shop with deep red painted walls hung with vertical banners silkscreened with Japanese clan designs.

John and Kev were not the only customers. The doctor noticed a lean older man with a patrician nose and stooped shoulders standing beside the shop register. Never out of habit as the assistant to the World's Only Consulting Detective, John took in the following details at a glance, the gentleman was dressed in a red button up cardigan which was well worn and well-loved, indicated by careful mending along the hem and elbows. His hair was short and he wore a neatly trimmed beard and moustache.

On the counter before the gentleman was a canvas bag holding various items and John deduced he might be a fellow antiques dealer.

Gareth guided John and Kev to a set of display cases before excusing himself to confer with the dealer. John peered into the case to see a row of metal ovals and circles, shaped with flowers and cranes, bamboo and tigers. John thought aloud that they appeared too beautiful to be thrown around. Kev laughed, informing the doctor that the round pieces of metal were in fact _tsuba_ , or sword guards, not a type of shuriken.

"The soul of a warrior resides in his sword, so the finest swords are not only deadly, but works of art. If you cannot purchase a katana, the antique guards still highly collectible."

John moved from the case to study vases and lacquered boxes on shelves; the suits of armour were out of the question, John's attention was captured by a coat displayed in a box frame on the wall, painted with a design featuring a human skull. Kev informed him this was a fireman's coat from ancient Edo and John whistled at the amount of zero's on the label below.

"I don't suppose there's anything else here with a skull? Sherlock likes them."

"Oh, of course! _Siger!_ " Kev knocked the side of his head in a pantomime of frustration.

John was taken aback for a moment before he recalled that anyone who followed his blog would know the name of the skull that took pride of place on their mantelpiece at 221B Baker Street.

"Let's ask Gareth."

But the shop's owner shook his head. "That fireman's coat is all I have right now. I'd go as far as knocking off a hundred pound on the price."

"Sorry, still a thousand out of my range."

"I could put you on a list when something comes up," Gareth offered.

"Thanks for that," John replied, "but I need something this weekend."

The older man in the cardigan now turned toward the doctor.

"Skulls, do you say? Does it have to be Japanese? I do have a particular _memento mori_ in my inventory."

"Bart, are you pinching my customers?" Yet Gareth smiled as he rolled up a felt cloth on the counter.

"A memento-what?" John asked.

" _Memento-mori,_ " The dealer reached out to shake John's hand, introducing himself as Charles Bartholomew, or Bart as he preferred to be called, former Librarian for Jesus College and a specialist in Victorian antiques since his retirement.

"From the Latin, translated as 'remember you will die.' There was quite a fad during Medieval Europe for funerary art depicting dancing skeletons and skulls, revived during Victoria's reign after the death of Prince Albert as the Queen remained in mourning."

Reaching into his canvas bag, Bart pulled out a leather drawstring pouch and opened it to reveal an ivory-coloured pocket watch. The face of the watch was decorated with circles denoting each hour, each circle delicately hand-painted with Arabic numerals in gold. A smaller dial at the bottom displayed seconds. There was no glass cover to the watch, so the painting showed a bit of wear.

"Most _memento mori_ are timepieces, an apt reminder of mortality," Bart explained. "This watch was possibly made Germany before the First World War, alas, there is no maker's mark. However, it is rare for such a watch of this age to retain its original chain and key."

And here was the skull Bart had mentioned, a carving the size of John's thumbnail depending from the chain. In his thoughts John named it 'Little Siger'. Without being prompted, the dealer placed the watch and chain directly into John's hands and the doctor was surprised to find its surface warm to the touch. On the back was an inscription.

_"Sine Pari."_

"That is Latin for 'Without Equal'" Bart explained with a shrug which indicated to John that the dealer thought the watch might be more valuable without it. "It's unusual. Inscriptions would usually say 'tempus fugit' which means time is fleeting or some other variant on the theme."

John thought the inscription fit his flatmate perfectly.

"Does it work?" Kev asked, leaning over John's shoulder.

"It's still functional." Bart lifted the chain and used the key to wind it. "I would advise that this be kept as a showpiece, not an item for everyday use."

"You're interested in selling it?" John asked as he was about to lift the watch to his ear, but this proved unnecessary as the clicking of the gears inside were quite audible.

"I am in the process of reducing my collections. As a young man I was quite the hoarder, now I find pleasure in paring myself down to the essentials. This watch was an interesting find, but I'm not particularly attached to it."

John found himself nodding as he gently rubbed the back of the watch casing absently with his thumb, sensing a faint grain in its texture.

"Is the watch enameled?" Kev asked.

"I believe so," the older gentleman replied.

But John realized the material of the watch was _familiar_ to an army doctor who lived with a Consulting Detective and his more grisly experiments.

He was holding an antique pocket watch made entirely of _bone._

As to what type of bone, John had no idea. Would Sherlock be eager to investigate? John licked his lips.

"Now, before you make up your mind," Bart was saying, "open up the back. Just there at that small indent."

John used the edge of his fingernail to pry up the back of the watch. Inside he spied what he supposed were typical watch works, spinning cogs and wheels, yet the only part of the interior that was metal was one coil of dull gold, all of the other tiny mechanisms were made of the same material as the watch.

"Interesting, isn't it?" said Bart rubbing his hands together.

"It is, that," John admitted, hoping that the tone of his voice was one of mild interest and not the breathless excitement he was feeling.

_I've found Sherlock's Perfect Present._

"What are you asking for it?" John tried to calculate what was left of his cash reserves and wished for a moment that Sherlock were here to help him negotiate, his flatmate had often told him he lacked a proper 'poker face'.

The dealer folded his hands before him as he stated, quickly, "Three hundred and fifty pound."

Before John could make a counter-offer Kevin spoke up."Two hundred fifty."

John's mouth dropped open.

Gareth, who walked out past the counter, responded with, "Three hundred!"

"Wait!" John said, just at the time that Bart stated,

"Let the gentlemen have a word!"

"Do you know who this is for?" Kevin said, gesturing to the watch in John's hand. " _Sherlock Holmes!_ "

While John appreciated the compliment, he was certain this information would not help his cause and this proven when Bart said,

"Then I'm thinking he could pay as much as three fifty!"

John stepped forward in an attempt to control the negotations. "Mr. Bartholomew, I'm interested in purchasing this watch, but I've only got so much cash on hand."

The older man stroked his beard with the tips of his fingers.

"You could put down some as an _installment._."

"But it's a _Christmas present!_ " Kevin said.

"Three hundred, cash seems a fair price to me." Gareth chimed in. "With a bit coming to me as commission, as this is _my_ shop, in case anyone has forgotten."

John sighed, knowing Sherlock would have wanted him to barter further. He turned toward Mr. Bartholmew.

"I probably shouldn't admit this, but I wanted to find my best friend the perfect present, and this is made for him. If three hundred is acceptable to you and to Mr. Hobbs, you have a deal."

The three gentlemen stared at the doctor, and then at each other.

Gareth put his hands in the pockets of his Gi. "Seeing it's Christmas, I could forget about the commission."

Mr.Bartholmew nodded. "I'd be willing to take two seventy five."

John could only laugh. "Gareth, you deserve a commission and Bart, I certainly wouldn't want you to feel you'd taken less for the watch than it's worth. Three hundred is _fine._ "

The older man rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with pleasure as he placed the watch back in its leather pouch.

"Inside you'll find the receipt for the watch from the shop where I purchased it back in '76 in Niece. This is the item's provenance or record of ownership, which makes it more valuable."

"In my profession we call that a 'chain of evidence.'” John smiled as he pulled out his wallet.

"If you'd be willing to mention the shop in your blog, Dr. Watson," Gareth suggested,"I’d be grateful."

But Kev went back to a set of shelves to select a pair of lacquer boxes.

"I want to donate something to the cause! John, pick one of these."

John selected the box with a design of koi fish, waiting beside the counter as Gareth placed the pouch with the watch inside the lacquer box, wrapping everything neatly in white and blue printed paper and placing it in a plastic carrier bag.

"Thanks, Kev," John said. "It’s been wonderful to meet you and I wouldn't have found _this,_ " he held up the bag, "... without your help."

The young man grinned. "I feel like I've just walked into one of your stories, Dr. Watson. What do you say we all go round the corner for a pint and celebrate?"

John nodded, in a buoyant good mood, happy to spend time with his new friends in Oxford before heading back to London and Sherlock Holmes.

***

TBC  
Part Two _Wherein Sherlock and John exchange presents_ \- Posting the week of Xmas.  



	2. Chapter 2

  
Part Two.   
HAPPY NEW YEAR  
*revised 1/1/12*

****

 

The local pub frequented by John's new friends proved to be The Royal Oak in Woodstock Road, its interior a combination of the old - blackened wood wainscoting, a red brick fireplace, worn wooden floor - with the new - modern light fittings, magnolia painted plaster, gold flocked wallpaper.

Kevin directed Gareth, Bart and John to seating at the back of the pub, explaining that while the tables at the bay windows facing the street were popular, they were also chilly this time of the year. In the early afternoon the pub was less densely populated, with a few Keble students and Radcliffe Hospital staff gathered at the bar and around the fireplace.

John picked up a menu, slouching against the back of the banquette with a happy sigh, enjoying the prospect of a meal with company that would not drag him away from it half-finished.

Kev regretted that they couldn't indulge in the Sunday Roast for which the pub was famous. John selected the Salmon and Devon crab fishcakes at Gareth's suggestion. As they waited for the food to arrive, the conversation turned inevitably to Sherlock Holmes; Bart, being the only person unfamiliar with the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Wanting to find an easier way to explain his work, John glanced over to where a pair of students sat together watching a livestream on a laptop. "Does anyone have access to a computer?"

Kev went back out to his car to fetch his notebook and returned just as their food was delivered; between bites that John introduced Mr. Bartholomew to Sherlock's website _The Science of Deduction_ and his own blog. While impressed, Bart was more interested in the mechanics of creating websites.

John only looked up from the notebook when Kev lifted his arm to direct an attractive young woman to their table.

Kevin's friend wore jeans and a scoop neck black tee with a yellow wool swing coat, her bobbed blonde hair pulled back by pink headband with what John thought of as a black Hello Kitty design, also featured on the large squashy handbag over her shoulder.(John was later informed this was _Nyanpire_ , another Japanese mascot.)

"Dr. Watson? I'm glad to meet you!" The woman set her hand on John's shoulder in a familiar way and he caught a heady floral scent from her clothing.

"The pleasure is all mine," John grinned, only to have his side elbowed.

"Oi, that's the trouble and strife, Meg!" Kevin laughed. John interpreted the Cockney Rhyming slang as 'wife'. The men now shuffled around the booth, picking up pint glasses, plates and silverware to make room for the new member of their party.

"The name is _Megan_ , if you please," the lady said, lifting up her chin. John inquired how the couple had met, Megan informed him that she and her husband were members of the Society for Creative Anachronism and began a funny story about Japanese Heian-era costume that John found impossible to follow.

Bart continued to study John's blog as Gareth worked on a second pint, tapping his feet in time to the _Hard Day's Night_ soundtrack playing over the pub's speakers. Kev's mobile went off and he took some time to wrestle it from his coat pocket.

He reached out to grip John's upper arm, thrusting his phone in front of the doctor's face.

"Look!"

"It's Sherlock," John gasped.

Kevin lowering his voice to a whisper. "What do I do?"

"I don't know." Having just accessed Sherlock's website, John knew their code for emergencies had not been posted.

"Should I answer?"

Bart and Gareth leaned forward, watching their exchange intently, with the exception of Megan, who was excavating the depths of her cat bag.

"Any response, verbal or text, might give away the fact that I'm with you." John said. "He's that good."

Kev set his mobile down on the tabletop carefully, as if it were an unexploded bomb. "Okay. I suppose if it's important Mr. Holmes will leave a message."

As John wondered how his flatmate could have possibly found him after all his precautions, Meg pulled a vibrating mobile out of her bag, oblivious to the panicked gestures of her companions.

"Hello? Oh! He's sitting right next to me! It's for you, Dr. Watson!"

John shoulders slumped as he stretched out his hand to take Megan's black mobile decorated with crystal stickers.

"Sherlock, you absolute _pillock_! How am I supposed to keep anything a secret from you?"

" _John_ , is that any way to speak to your partner? And you should know by now not to try."

"Okay. Gimmie," John said, beginning to grin, any feelings of disappointment fading before his admiration for his partner.

"I monitor the IP addresses of everyone accessing your blog and my site; a pattern of hits came from Oxford today, _the Ashmolean, the Flying Dragon Dojo,_ and now _The Royal Oak._ "

John sighed, he hadn't considered that when he arrived at the museum unannounced that Kev - who had never met him before - would check his site for his profile image. And Gareth, when rung up by Kev for an appointment, had also accessed both sites.

Sherlock continued. "Once I remembered Mr. Wong, I looked up his contact information. When he did not respond to his mobile, I recalled his mention of a wife; the name Wong is not so common in Oxford. I was able to finesse her mobile number from her employers at _Fabulous Flowers."_

"Oh, I thought she was wearing strong perfume," John replied.

"We will make a detective of you yet."

"I'm quite content to assist and blog. Thank you very much."

"With his expertise in Japanese art, Mr. Wong is an excellent resource. The dojo he frequents has a gift shop above it. Considering the amount you withdrew from your bank account, estimating what you have spent on expenses, coupled with the fact that you could not bring back something of large size and a perusal of shop's inventory online, you may have bought me a tsuba or even a set of shuriken, if you have become complacent regarding further damage to the sitting room walls."

"Amazing," John said, with a shake of his heard, not daring to expand on his friend's deductions. "But what about being surprised this Christmas?"

"I have no idea as to the particulars of the item you've purchased. I look forward to that."

"So." John kept his head down, unable to keep a smile from his face. "Why did you call?"

"I think I missed you, but more to the point; I need to know when you expect to return, as my endevours in gift making have taken over most of the flat."

"I could be back at eight. If you want me to stay here overnight you'll have to send me some dosh or I could see if Murray has a scratcher."

"Why would Murray want to scratch you?"

"Scratcher is military slang for a place to sleep, you berk."

"Irrelevant, deleted. You can come home."

John couldn't help laughing.

"Feel free to offer your friends a round of drinks. I've a first class ticket waiting for you at the station for the last train at 7:18. Don't be late."

"I won't," John paused, surprised at his partner's uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. "Thank you Sherlock."

But the detective had already rung off.

 

****

 

Whatever project Sherlock had taken on, John found no evidence of it when he arrived at 221B. The mantle of their fireplace was decorated with a string of white fairy lights. A vintage Space Age aluminium tree Sherlock had discovered was set up between the long windows, spinning on a motorized base, a spotlight on the floor switching at intervals to red, yellow, blue and green, reflecting off the silver branches and glass baubles.

John set down his holdall in his favourite red chair and gave Siger a pat on the head. Sherlock Holmes chose this moment to glide silently out of his bedroom, clad in a white shirt, black tailored trousers and his mouse-coloured dressing gown with the bullet hole in the pocket, shutting the door firmly behind him. Sherlock's hair was tousled, his eyes red-rimmed and his complexion paler, John thought, than usual.

"Did you sleep or eat while I was gone?"

Sherlock waved this question away, mumbling something about fruitcake and Mrs. Hudson, but John stopped mid-stride, turning on his heel smartly, to grasp the detective's wrist.

"What have you been doing with yourself?"

Sherlock's hands were wrecked, for lack of a better term, his fingers swollen and dotted with small red puncture wounds and strange thin diagonal cuts.

"Working," the detective frowned in the manner of a petulant child.

"Just set yourself on the sofa. I'll fetch the tea _and_ the first aid box."

Sherlock turned on the telly and John tended his wounds, using _Captain Scarlet_ plasters to give Sherlock's fingers a festive red and white striped appearance. The doctor instructed his patient to _keep his hands still_ as they watched _The Curse of the Cat People_ , holding a teacup up at intervals to the detective's mouth so he could drink his tea.

"What's on the itinerary for the week, in lieu serial murders, locked-room mysteries, jewel thefts or attacks by arch-enemies?"

"If _only_ ," Sherlock sighed. "There are the usual 'festive' rituals, Angelo expects us mid-week with Mrs. Hudson, then there's Midnight Mass at the parish church. I thought we would spend Christmas Day together at the flat, before I have to make an appearance at my arch enemy's house for _dinner_ in the evening."

When John only leveled a blank stare in response, Sherlock snapped, "You know by arch-enemy I mean _Mycroft._ "

"You are going to Midnight Mass," John stated.

"Problem?" Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, folding his arms around them, careful to keep his sore fingers loose.

"I thought, considering your pursuit for rationality and your love of science, you'd have no patience for," here John made a wagging gesture with both hands, " ... religious theatre and superstitious belief."

Sherlock lifted his head, a spark of interest now brightening his expression.

"How intriguing, John. Your stock is Anglican, your parents never attended church, yet you have some experience of it. Something turned you off."

"I met Susan, my first love, at Barts. She was from a very upright, C of E family. I went to church to please her; we planned a long engagement and as proof of my commitment, I agreed to no pre-marital sex."

At Sherlock's brow-lift he added, "... stopping before intercourse at any rate"

"She _cheated_ on you."

John nodded, surprised to find the bitter sting of betrayal had faded with time. Perhaps, he mused, this was because Susan's decision had given him the impetus to live life to the full, without holding anything back. He had studied hard, brawled, gambled, made love, joined the army, fought and saved lives until he was invalided home. Now he was here, bandaging Sherlock's hands, watching telly, sharing a cuppa.

But he still wouldn't cross the street to speak to his ex-fiance if the opportunity arose.

"She was an idiot, obviously" was Sherlock's scathing response, then the detective changed tack.

"I was brought up in the Catholic faith, but it did not stick, much to Mummy's dismay. If I were to classify my spiritual belief I would say I am a Secular Humanist with Pure Land Buddhism and Shinto leanings."

"Er ..." John Watson's confusion was evident in his expression and Sherlock laughed.

"One of the larger donations - from Shad Sanderson - on my Christmas List goes to the Marylebone Healing and Counseling Centre, located in the basement of the St. Marylebone Parish Church. Many of my 'Irregulars' in the homeless network have been helped there. As many of them have spoken of my work to the Church Fathers, I have a standing invitation. I thought I would attend this year."

"I'll go," John said. "I'd be happy to go with you."

"If Lestrade rings, crime takes precedence."

"Of course," John grinned. His smile growing wider when he discovered Sherlock had left him some of Mrs. Hudson's excellent Dark Jamaica Fruitcake.

 

****

 

John's first stop that Christmas week was to collect his clothes, mobile and watch from Lestrade at the Yard. The next day John stopped in at the surgery, though he no longer worked there, Sarah had asked him to lunch and John greeted her a kiss on the cheek, grateful they had remained friends.

Sherlock ran back and forth across London to make certain his holiday exchanges were going according to plan, snapping and growling at the general incompetence of his fellow Londoners, therefore, John was grateful when the detective holed up in his bedroom.

The only clue as to the nature of John's gift from Sherlock was the vivid purple feather the doctor found perched on top of the detective's head one morning, caught in his dark curls.

 

****

On Wednesday night Sherlock and John took their landlady to Angelo's and Mrs. Hudson adored dining by candlelight. She cooed over her gift from John, a stylish purple Mac. From Sherlock she received a very gorgeous, quite large - and therefore heavy - crystal snow globe with a scene of Victorian London inside.

Mrs. Hudson proceeded to tell John a story of finding a certain pale, skinny, English boy breaking into her home one Christmas Eve, knocking him unconscious with a snow globe.

"I'm sorry for giving Sherlock such a whopping goose egg, but how was I to know he was really my Christmas Angel, come in answer to my prayers? Don't tell anyone I told you that, dear."  
She patted John's hand, speaking as if the detective was not sitting just to her left. "It embarrasses him."

Mrs. Hudson paused to dab at her eyes with a serviette, worrying that her mascara was not truly waterproof. John bit his lip knowing Sherlock was also teary-eyed, attempting to hide it by remarking that Angelo should invest in smokeless candles. After pudding, Mrs. Hudson was bundled into a black cab to take her to her sister's house in Surrey, leaving the detective and his blogger alone at Baker Street for the holiday.

 

****

On Christmas Eve - after a cold supper provided by a well-stocked hamper from Fortnum's - John put on a jacket to attend Midnight Mass with Sherlock. They arrived late and took seats in the few empty pews remaining at the back of the long gallery. During the service John and Sherlock remained seated as the congregation knelt, but stood up as the ceremony called for it. The Reiger Organ, when played, made the fillings in John's teeth vibrate.

The sermon became one of the memorable moments of that night for John, if not for the reasons the Reverend may have wished for.

_"What would we have seen, had we gone to Bethlehem that night? According to Saint Luke’s version of the story, we would have seen Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. Would we have seen anything else? Not, I suspect, if we were hoping to see choirs of angels in the sky; and yet, everything we need to see is here. For those with eyes to see, is the mystery of life, the truth about ourselves laid plain before us."_

John turned his head to look at his friend and Sherlock gazed back, the edge of his pale lips curling upward. John had faith in the friendships he forged in battle; on dusty streets, in emergency rooms and dark moors. He had faith in the man he stood beside.

He wondered if Sherlock Holmes had deduced this.

 

****

After the service, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked back in silence to 221B Baker Street, opening the front door and climbing the seventeen steps to the door of their flat. Sherlock turned on the gas fire while John heated up cups of wassail, after checking that nothing else was residing in the microwave.

John brought over the drinks and clinked mugs with his flatmate. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, John. I'd play the Strad for you, alas." Sherlock held out his still bandaged hand. "When do you consider it proper to open our presents to each other?"

"When I was a kid we ran downstairs as soon as we woke up, the gifts were all under the tree. Mum and Dad didn't even bother wrapping them."

"Ah," Sherlock sighed. "I had to _wait_ until Mummy had risen for the day. We had to be dressed and sit to breakfast. Only _then_ were my brother and I allowed to open our gifts."

John tsked in sympathy. "How did you _stand_ it?"

"It's probably why I developed by abilities for deduction," Sherlock said, "staring at those presents under the tree and aching to open them."

John tried to hide his excitement, slowly sipping his spiced wine.

Sherlock began bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Oh, Hell." John relented. "Go get yours and I'll get mine!"

Sherlock tore off for his bedroom and John sprinted up the stairs to his. He had kept his partner's gift in its bag, in his Army footlocker, bound with chain and a huge rusty padlock.

A sign taped to the trunk warned, _Do Not Open On Pain Of Death. I Mean It SHERLOCK!_

John had intended these precautions as a tease, knowing they were no challenge to the detective. A set of bolt cutters tucked behind the wardrobe made quick work of the chain, as John had thrown away the only key to the padlock in the Thames.

He proceeded quickly down the stairs, holding the bag with the Flying Dragon logo emblazoned on the side. Sherlock stood beside the sofa with two parcels wrapped up in black and white glossy paper.

"You made me two presents?" John asked.

"It is one present in two parts," Sherlock replied. "You go first."

"Oh, no. _You_ go first, I had to go all over England for your gift."

The detective held up his hands, wrapped in their red and white striped plasters.

"I bled for mine."

 _"Bastard,"_ John muttered, good-natured. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, indicating that John should open the larger package first.

Once the doctor ripped away the wrapping paper his gift was revealed as a long hard-sided case with three front zippered pouches. John moved the case onto the coffee table to zipper it open to discover what the case had been custom-designed to carry.

John stared up at his flatmate, who stood with his hands almost primly behind his back.

"You've not brought anything from your old life into the flat but your footlocker and your great-grandfather's split bamboo fly fishing rod. It was free of dust, which led me to deduce that you took it out quite often to practice casting. You've been waiting to take up the sport but time and the expense haven't allowed it. While antique, this rod and reel were in excellent shape, it only needed a bit of refurbishing."

Sherlock leaned over, indicating the removable padded dividers inside. "This case will hold multiple rods, reels and fly boxes. Being easily transportable, you could take it along on our travels, if you happen to be at loose ends because of an early resolution or as an method of surveillance."

John had been so engaged in finding a present for his flatmate he had not thought at all about Sherlock's gift for him. He looked at gleaming varnished bamboo, the reel now burnished a bright shining gold.

"My mum wanted to toss this out, every girlfriend I ever had called it rubbish. No one ever asked me if I wanted to fish with it, much less fix it." John swallowed down the lump rising in his throat. "Thank you, it _is_ perfect."

Sherlock nodded, regally accepting the accolade as his due and handed John the second box.

"You did say that I should make you a gift," Sherlock explained, as John tore off more wrapping paper. In his hands he held a box of black walnut, expertly crafted, with the name _Dr. John H. Watson_ burned into the lid. He opened the box to reveal 16 compartments on one side, and foam padding on the other.

Inside the compartments were dozens and dozens of hand-tied flies, lures consisting of wire hooks bound with thread, wire, delicate feathers and tiny glass beads. The colours and styles were myriad and John spied a bee as well as a purple Deceiver with a tiny human skull on its spine.

John's gaze dropped to Sherlock's bandaged hands.

"You made all of these?"

"A comprehensive beginner's set, the fly you use will depend on where you fish, a running stream or still water, what species of fish will also determine the type of fly, brown trout, salmon, wet flies, dry flies, it's quite a complex sport when you get down to it, involving strategy and skill."

John set down the box and stood up.

" ... crunchers, muddlers, sedge hogs, buzzers, poppers, mini lures, nymphs,"

He reached out to take hold of Sherlock's arms.

His flatmate's eyes widened. "John?"

"You. Are. Amazing. Quite, amazing and wonderful. This, _these_ , are works of art."

Sherlock stood quite still between his friend's outstretched arms.

"You aren't going to hug me, are you?"

"I think a person who makes such Perfect Presents should expect them."

"Could we consider it given? It's Christmas."

John chuckled as he gave Sherlock's forearms a tight squeeze before allowing his hands to loosen and drop to his sides naturally. "Now it's your turn."

The detective did not hesitate in snatching up his present from the sofa, reaching inside allowing the bag to drop to the floor. As he lifted the box, he placing it parallel to the side of his head. John held both hands out.

"For god's sake, _don't shake it_!"

Sherlock's sharp gaze stopped John from moving forward.

"Just, open it carefully."

The detective slid two of his fingers under one of the neatly mitered corners of the blue and white wrapping and stripped it off, revealing the black lacquer box, and took a moment to study the design of golden koi.

Sherlock's lips quirked. "I knew you liked fish."

John unconsciously adopted his friend's gift giving posture, placing his hands behind his back, but with a military stance.

Sherlock prized the lid of the box away from the bottom, bending so that he could place the lid on the coffee table. He peeled away another layer of paper, revealing the worn leather pouch.

John could feel his toes curling, studying every subtle movement of Sherlock's features, the light furrow between his brows, the flare of his nostrils as he lifted the pouch to his nose. Setting the bottom of the bento box on the table, so both hands were free, Sherlock loosened the leather drawstring, placing his forefingers into the top of the pouch, gently prizing the material apart.

His right hand held the pouch at a forty five degree angle to his left hand, palm open to receive the watch as it slid out.

John nearly whimpered with suppressed excitement, watching Sherlock's head tilt at an angle and the chain with its deaths head fell out of the pouch to swing in the air.

In one fluid movement Sherlock pocketed the pouch to study the perfect little carving of the human skull, every sense tuned and focused on John's gift with the same intensity as a crime scene.

"A watch, possibly Victorian, early, not English, material organic." Sherlock held the timepiece to his nose, sniffing it, perhaps even touching just the tip of his tongue to its surface.

"Numerals painted in 18 karat gold leaf mixed with a bit of white gauche." He turned the watch over in his hand. "Inscription, incised with a metal tool, slightly burred; 'Without Equal' some time after the watch was made. Chain original, skull added later, a _memento-mori."_

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and his eyes widened as he stared at his partner. "Where did you find it?"

"A man came into the shop, a friend of Gareth's, who collected Victorian things."

Sherlock held up his hand in an abrupt gesture, and John, well versed in Sherlock's gestures, kept silent.

John felt slightly dizzy, waiting, hoping that Sherlock would open the watch, biting his lip to keep from blurting out the suggestion.

"It's made of bone," The detective said. "Animal bone probably, if it is _human_  bone .... wouldn't that be incredible." Sherlock's eyes were shining even before he used a single finger to flip open the watch to see its intricate workings carved completely from bone.

John should have been prepared, he was a solider, but in the blink of an eye Sherlock seemed to cross the room in a single stride to press up against his flatmate, his entire lean frame shivering.

John kept his hands to his sides and Sherlock - who recalled which shoulder it was safe to rest his head against - allowed John to support him.

"I knew you'd find something perfect for me."

"Even if it's not made of human bone?" John asked.

Sherlock lifted his head, smiling, holding his watch to his mouth, the chain wrapped around his thumb, so Little Siger seemed to be grinning at the doctor.

"Even then. I can't _wait_ to show it off."

"Best Christmas ever," John grinned.

 

**End Two  
**


End file.
